onionbagblog

Winning design chosen for Clapham railway bridge makeover

I preferred the old Welcome to Wankerville, tbh.

Neither proud nor ashamed to say that I’ve listened to this hundreds of times - but not in the past forty years or so. And none of it sticks, apart from the singles. Nothing was memorable. That’s not to say that it’s a poor album, far from it. It’s a very easy, smooth listen, as you would expect. But apart from the lead tracks, I wouldn’t find myself humming along to the more minor tracks whilst I’m looking for an ear worm. The early 80’s were very much like that; the same could be said for Let’s Dance. Save a Prayer is the exception, and is worth the extra star alone.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐

The sound of an artist learning and showcasing his craft in real time. Which is kinda what demos are… Still, it’s a fantastic listen, and raw as fuck. Almost 70 years later and there is still an air of excitement and danger. Plus no one ballads like Elvis - even in his early Elvis incarnation. Extra marks for sounding ace in mono.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

A very accomplished album. Which is not quite the CRAZY world of rock ‘n’ roll eulogy that perhaps some artists crave for. But this is classy, polished, and grown up. I already had R.E.M. and Hothouse Flowers vibes before I read the wiki entry. Oh looky looky - both bands feature on the album. Fancy that. The IG clearly know their craft, both in songwriting and musicianship. But it’s not quite naughty enough for me. Pleasant music for an afternoon of wood sawing.

⭐ ⭐

To the sailing club!… on Monday evening for the latest in the sailing club table tennis get togethers. Except it wasn’t that social; no other fuckers had turned up.

There was a GC meeting down below. This meant that the club was open and we had access to the loft for our own private game of indoor table tennis.

Despite the lack of different opposition, I really wanted to play. We had stunning views from the loft looking out down towards the estuary. It was a little stuffy in there but this didn’t hold us back.

Fifteen minutes also of TWATTING the ball back and forth, and a third player rocked up. This meant we could play winner stays on.

This is a great approach to table tennis. A and I seemed to rotate frequently with the third person pretty much anchored down with his position on the table.

I optimistically declared that I am the best player in the club towards the end of the session. This was justified when I went on a winning streak and knocked the other two off.

King of the Table, modesty in motion. That’s me.

To the Odeon! …on Monday afternoon for another in the latest series of cheapo cheapo grubby fiver screenings over in Sunny Colch. Filling up my afternoon of leisure was Mandalorian and Grogu. This has to be the crappiest name of any film, not only in the ever-expanding Star Wars franchise, but also in recent cinematic history.

Talk about Tell It Like It Is.

I should by now know what to expect with the cheapo cheapo screenings. I’m no cinema snob but, you aren’t exactly mixing it with a high-end Barbican crowd. Christ, I am a cinema snob.

For the second consecutive screening I had to turn around only a couple of minutes into the film and deliver a bit of a shhh moment as I put my finger to my lips and asked a couple behind me to stop bloody banging on.

Christ. What the fuck is wrong with people? Once again they were happy to yap away all over the trailers. I had no real issue with this as the trailers were mainly Minions shite anyway.

The mundane conversation that wasn’t even in the remotest related to the film continued as the plot was being set up for The Mandalorian. I’ll continue to shhh selfish fuckers up if they continue to spoil my £5 afternoon of enjoyment.

But anyway. The film. Blimey. It was absolute bobbins. Those days of eagerly anticipating a new film in the franchise are long gone. The Star Wars franchise is nothing but a money-making exercise for Disney, and a very profitable one at that.

Not a lot happens in the film. Not a lot actually happens in The Mandalorian telly series, but you could pass a pleasant 40 minutes or so, transported into the Star Wars universe whilst watching at home.

Transport this to a full-on cinema experience with some selfish arseholes sitting behind you, and that £5 suddenly didn’t feel like money well spent.

I won’t bore you with the plot. It’s out there to explore online. There isn’t much of a plot to be honest. I knew that I had lost my love for the Star Wars franchise when one of the major scene stealers involves Jabba the Hutt’s son wrestling with his uncle and aunt.

I dozed off midway through the film and wished I hadn’t awoken. It was very loud, which makes my slumber all the more perplexing. I’m amazed that I slept through those two selfish arseholes talking absolute crap throughout.

May the Voice be with you.

Dickheads.

I returned for a walk along the trail in what must be the first time in over a couple of months. I had to get from Weird Wive over to Sunny Colch. The light drizzle meant that a bicycle ride was out of the question. I refuse to pay for public transport on a local level these days.

There was a spectacular high tide. It was almost breaching what locals optimistically call the sea wall.

Over on the other side of the muddy banks, and the restoration work of the collapsed sea defence now looks complete. All the machinery has been moved on and a natural approach has been taken to containing time and tide.

It certainly looks more picturesque than the industrial corrugated iron that was previously trying and failing to hold back the water. However it looks as though the natural approach to the banking isn’t that sturdy. I’d be interested to see how a sustained run of high spring tides can test out this new back-to-nature bollocks.

Elsewhere there were a couple of kayakers sharing their craft as they tried to move downstream. There was a good reason why A and I don’t have a shared his-and-hers kayak: We’d fall out spectacularly, much in the same way as the couple I clocked on Monday afternoon were doing.

The other end of the trail was reached. The rain became heavier. I felt smug in the knowledge that I had a dry bicycle back at base. Five minutes for J Bukey entrance of the week I just want you close

I’ve been after a copy of Duck Rock on CD for a couple of years now. But OF COURSE I’ve got a cassette version, natch. I’m amazed I didn’t get round to buying it on vinyl back in the day. It was during that strange phase where you had a limited budget with so much music to explore.

Duck Rock was always on the radar back in the early 80s but the pace of change and my musical tastes took over. One month it was Duck Rock and the next it was King Kurt.

The excitement this music holds for me is the same now as it was back then, even without actually owning a copy. Duck Rock was pretty much Year Zero for me. It sounded so fresh.

It’s not just the early introduction to hip hop in its most crudest form, but also the African rhythm explorations that McLaren was undertaking. He was well ahead of his time.

Of course he’s an absolute charlatan, a thieving magpie, but it helped that he was stealing from the best. Duck Rock is more a collaboration project of which McLaren is purely the curator.

Missing from my collection now is the mini follow-up album Would Ya Like More Scratchin? I’m not even sure if this is available on CD.

R and I clocked a job lot on cassette in a Soho record shop a couple of years ago going for around a tenner. I probably should buy a vinyl version, even if I am 40 odd years late to the party.

Drizzle on Monday morning. Oh dear. That wasn’t part of the forecast - which is all something of a shame as it meant I had to drag my arse up to the University without a bicycle.

There’s no way any of my bikes are getting wet, not even for a poxy game of pickleball! And so walked all the way up to the University, played pickleball, and then walked all the way back.

The actual pickle activity was a little hit and miss. During a genteel warm-up I attempted something of a forearm smash. I pulled the muscle in my back. Ouch! That bloody hurt, etc.

I pressed on like the fool I am, thinking that more forearm smashes might somehow reverse the existing damage. I’m not very well medically qualified.

It was a friendly session. We had four student newcomers. They were, how shall I say, of mixed ability. Pickleball can be a funny old game to try and explain and pick up. No worries, I’ve got experience in weirdo sports with my background in korfball.

We let the newcomers play doubles amongst themselves as they experimented with some of the shots and techniques. This led to a couple of players being spare. This time was put to good use as I practised some drills with J.

The rain only intensified during the walk back to base. It didn’t heal my pulled muscle.

A chance encounter as we turned around one corner of a beautiful garden in Brightlingsea on Saturday and we bumped into M and family. Woh. I wasn’t expecting that. Conversation flowed about gardening, bicycles and then inevitably basketball. M let it slip out that his under-18 team are already in training ahead of the new season, which starts in October. That’s keen I thought.

And then this morning, whilst up at the university for pickleball, I left the sports hall and bumped into Coach Hart. Ah so he’s back at HQ. I thought the whole coaching staff was on some long sabbatical over the summer months; they certainly deserve a rest after a really hectic schedule travelling up and down the country for the best part of eight months.

We exchanged a friendly smile. I even called him Coach. I think he was slightly more embarrassed than I was. Never meet your heroes, etc, even if they are from a local basketball team that nobody else has heard of.

Back at base and I fired up the emails. It’s season ticket renewal time for the Rebels. Talk about getting in there early. We’re talking an early bird price. There’s been a slight increase this year but still at £110 for a season ticket, which covers all the men’s and women’s basketball, as well as the volleyball, that’s exceptional value for money.

I really miss our Saturday evenings up at the Essex Sports Arena. Sure it can get a little demanding. Thankfully the treble header games seem to have been lost with the AWOL men’s second team.

Heading up there every week for a couple of games from October through until May can wear you down, but once you’re there it’s bloody good fun. The cheque is in the post for the season tickets etc.

Oh yeah - I really did want to watch the NBA series. I know little of the Knicks but I got suckered into the whole Knicks hype train of perennial losers who are about to pull off something special.

Up the Rebs, up the Knicks. That sounds all wrong.